


Therapy

by VeronicaRich



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaRich/pseuds/VeronicaRich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three million years and some after his death, Rimmer gets some therapy, thanks to a discovery the guys make in a raid on a derelict. Timeline: Sometime in S6, decidedly an AU.</p><p>Addendum, October 2016: This story was posted a few years before the Series XI episode "Give & Take." It's good to know that once in a while, Doug's mind and mine run along the same wavelength.  ;-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“What the hell did he-”

Rimmer pushed the heel of one hand into his corresponding eye. “Lister, I am particularly not of a mindset to entertain your perceptions right now. If you please.”

Which, of course, he never did, where Rimmer was concerned. “I’m not shutting up until you explain what that was all about.”

He tried to comfort himself with the certainty that Lister probably would have driven General Patton to forget the war in favor of choking him just to shut him up. “What do you think he meant?”

“Well …” Rimmer blinked, incredulous. Lister, at a loss for words? “I mean- Hell, man, it sounded like he said you love me.” He scratched the side of his nose in a fetchingly disgusting manner, and Rimmer sighed. “But- heh, he’s not right. Right?”

Leaning forward, Rimmer put his elbows on the table and followed his forehead onto the heels of his hands. “I don’t hate you,” he answered. “I don’t want you dead – anymore. I don’t feel the urge quite as often to turn a hose on you like the family dog. And I don’t like you.” He paused, remembering the machine’s words. “You’ve cleaned yourself up, so disgust is out – mostly.” He sat up and ticked off another list of emotions he did not feel toward his still-too-grotty bunkmate, ending with, “… and certainly not ‘brotherly.’ We are nowhere _near_ related.” He shuddered at the idea. “If you look at this list and you see all the stuff I don’t feel about you, and you figure I’m certainly not going to wish you dead or maimed, or disfigured-” He glanced up at Lister and arched one eyebrow. “Well, anymore than Nature’s already done to you … I mean, if you think the only possible thing left could be _love_ , then maybe that’s what _you_ desperately want out of _me_.” He ended on a lofty note, crossing his arms and drawing a beady eye on Lister, daring him to explain it differently.

It took Lister a moment to work through all that; Rimmer counted on it, standing as the Scouser wrinkled his nose and scrunched his brow, visibly confused by the doublespeak. “Some of us need a nap, and you’re on duty.” He nodded triumphantly toward the cockpit.

“Steady on – you just say you love me?”

He blew out air. “Your comprehension, Lister, is equivalent to that of a sanity-challenged crustacean-”

“Nah, you said you love me.” He shook a finger briefly at Rimmer – then grinned broadly. “And so’d he!”

“He” had been a series 6000 mechanoid, fitted with the telepathic factory-installed option by DivaDroid Universal. Manufactured three years after Kryten had left the solar system with the Nova 5, the stranded bucket of bolts Rimmer had mistakenly (but under protest! It was on the record) agreed with the others to stop to help turned out to be a mostly defunct ball-shaped remnant of a three million years-earlier interstellar mission to scout for radioactive ore beyond Pluto. Only a few humans had been included in this mission, and Troi-7 had been specially designed as a therapist programmed to understand the range of human emotions. The telepathy was a timesaving measure to allow him – it – to cut through human bullshit and get the afflicted party the optimal counseling as quickly as possible.

The damn thing couldn’t move or clean or repair anything worth a smeg, Rimmer bitterly reflected, but it was sure johnny-on-the-spot with an assessment of their individual mental states, including Rimmer’s confusion about the person he’d spent the most time around continually in his entire existence.

“He’s a batty bucket of outdated algorithms,” Rimmer informed Lister, nostrils at full offended flare, “and I said no such thing. I said if that’s what you want to believe, that’s no skin off my bee. I have absolutely no inclination to moon over you or do as you please, or … touch you, and I’ll certainly not be sneaking into your bunk trying to jolly my roger up your- mast-hole, or whatever.” The metaphor failed his vocabulary mid-insult, and he snapped his mouth closed and strode out of the midsection.

******

As he was cleaning out his closet fifteen minutes later, looking for something to do, Rimmer came across one of his old Love Celibates’ newsletters. He read it, considered that if he were still alive he’d be dressed by the others as Baby Cupid and forced to wander the corridors with a glittery bow and arrow in punishment, and puffed out a big stream of air, and muttered, “Smeg it all.”

Lister ruined just fucking _everything_.


	2. Chapter 2

The Troi-7 blinked steadily as Rimmer faced it from where he sat in a stiff-backed metal chair. He was trying, really trying, not to glare, but it wasn’t easy. “I don’t love the stinking smegger,” he argued with absolute truth and conviction.

“I believe you-” what remained of the android’s shell began.

“Finally! It IS possible for you to see reason.”

“I believe you genuinely believe you don’t care for Mr. David,” the 6000 repeated calmly. “I am trained to look beyond words and surface emotions, though. You are definitely amorously inclined toward ‘the stinking smegger,’ sir.”

All the politeness in the world was not going to keep the metal goit from ending up in the airlock refuse, Rimmer determined, tapping his fingertips against his other upper arm where he grasped it. “Perhaps you’re misinterpreting emotional signals,” he pointed out, trying reason instead of more yelling; _that_ clearly hadn’t done any good. “Lister does arouse strong emotion in me on regular occasions, but I assure you it’s not directed at his bloody tadger.”

“Do you consider yourself a heterosexual, Mr. Arnold?”

He fidgeted and rubbed his nose; this was not a hard question. “Course I am,” he muttered. “What’s that got to do with anything? Even if, on the very, very small chance, I _wasn’t_ , miladdio, having a preference for the coarser sex doesn’t mean I’d shag any Tom’s hairy dick that happened along!”

“If you saw a group of women and one caught your attention, would you need to examine between her legs to finalize your interest?”

“Come again?”

“Would you be trying to see if she had an attractive vagina?”

Rimmer burst out laughing, snorting really. “Of all the- Well, no, not at first,” he conceded. “I mean, it’s not as though I have a list of what it should-” He shut up. Because, of course, he probably did, if he ever put his mind to giving the matter enough concentrated thought.

“Then I do not understand what Mr. David’s reproductive organ has to do with attraction you may feel toward him.”

“It was a figure of speech.” Rimmer pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache laying in supplies behind it. “You were suggesting I love him, which would presumably entail sex at some point.”

“And you would be opposed to that?”

“You’re jolly right I’m opposed to it!” Rimmer exploded. “For one, he’s got hygiene more questionable than one of Double-Oh-Seven’s IDs! He’s also short; I like my women tall. And female,” he hastily added.” He ticked off on his fingers. “He’s an unambitious, slovenly, hippie-go-lucky wreck of physical fitness … rodent-cheeked, whistling, bloody cheerful, optimistic, stupidly devoted to that Kochanski harlot, smegging fixated, takes stupid, dangerous chances in pointless situations … he’s a damn …” He waved the hand around on which he’d counted through twice, running out of adjectives. “And he has those dumb puppy eyes! Wet and brown and huge – he damn well _stares_ at you and won’t leave you alone.”

The 6000’s light blinked through this before it spoke with absolute sincerity. “The passion you exhibited just now is inextricably linked with the amorous intent you feel toward the person about whom you’re speaking.”

Rimmer buried his face in his hands and sighed. Clearly, putting forth a good, logical argument wasn’t going to work with this corrupted brain-bot any more than emotional arm-waving and voice-raising. “I do not want to spend time of a horizontal nature with Dave Lister,” he enunciated wearily. “I’m also fairly certain he harbors similar sentiments concerning me.”

“I believe you are still referring to sexual congress,” the 6000 smoothly replied. “That does not constantly nor necessarily connote with amorous feelings. You do understand you do not have to engage in carnal activity to love another human, correct? Nor have those feelings reciprocated in order for them to exist?”

“Oh, great.” Rimmer pulled his hands away from his face. “Now you’re calling me some unrequited Moping Mary who can’t even pick the right person to fall in love with.”

“I do apologize. I thought the point might make you feel much better.”

“Well, it doesn’t,” he answered, cranky. “Not that I felt bad, mind. I don’t want anything from that git, let alone touchy-gropey girl-feelings _for_ him.”

As Rimmer had said nothing to contradict the 6000, it remained silent. Humans, it had been programmed to recognize, could want to not have feelings all they liked; it was expected, and they were valid wishes.


	3. Chapter 3

Troi-7 noted that Mr. Arnold always spent part of nearly all their twice-weekly sessions denying anything he felt for the last human, whether the mechanical therapist brought up the topic or not. They did, however, get to move on to his long-dead family and school peers after a fashion – rich enough material to keep Troi-7 gainfully employed for most of the rest of his runtime, however long that might be.

It was only a few months after the 6000 was brought aboard that the last human was joined by another human from an alternate dimension. When introduced, Troi-7 recognized her name from Mr. Arnold’s occasional rants and Mr. David’s occasional sighs. This was not _his_ Ms. Kristine, however much he might wish it, and unfortunately for Mr. David, his subconscious would not let his will trick the rest of his brain into pretending she could be that woman.

The 6000 noted a marked change in its sessions with Mr. Arnold not long after her arrival. No longer did he swear and rail about whatever his relationship might be with Mr. David. He submitted much more easily to discussion about his mother and father, and his older brothers’ influence, and the career he’d tried to imagine for himself while alive and after his hologrammatic resurrection. In fact, the 6000 sensed – well, _knew_ – that his patient wanted nothing more than to forget his former roommate existed. Something very close to what the humans had colloquially termed heartbreak had tried to seize Mr. Arnold, and he’d steadfastly managed to keep it locked out in the lobby of his unconscious with every bit of the denial he’d spent a lifetime cultivating.

Troi-7 had even tried to touch on it once. “We have a few minutes left,” it had smoothly pointed out at the end of a session. Mr. Arnold did love his sessions, and was quick to point out if he suspected the android therapist was trying to nudge him out early, as though he were paying for them. “We have not talked about Mr. David for three weeks.”

The hologram-human fiddled with a clasp on his jacket. “What’s that about my mother?” he asked instead.

“Perhaps you misunderstood me, or my transmission was garbled,” the 6000 tried, kindly, knowing it was no such thing. “I brought up the topic of Mr. David and your -”

“No, you were asking about my _mother’s_ tendency to look to her children for the perfection she didn’t have herself.” Mr. Arnold’s tone was firm, bordering on angry, perhaps the strongest emotion he’d outwardly exhibited in weeks.

They had finished discussing that 23 minutes ago, but Troi-7 knew a tactic when it encountered one. It hadn’t been manufactured yesterday, after all. “My mistake,” it replied, patiently. “And how do you feel about that tendency?”

*****

Lister tried to open his eyes, feeling like he’d been run over by a lorry and then, that someone had removed two of its tires and attached them to his eyelids with industrial-strength fishing line. He blinked as rapidly as he could to dislodge the crusty buildup sealing them shut, and gingerly felt for each part of his body with his mind – toes, feet, calves, knees, hips, belly, fingers, ar-

One hand squeezed something loose and both coarse and soft. He tried again, then managed to roll his head enough on the pillow to look to his right. Somebody’s head was under his hand, his fingers sunk up to the first knuckle in wavy auburn hair. He moved the fingers experimentally, feeling hair slide between them, and sighed in brief contentment; it was kind of nice, especially compared to all the other alarm-bell feelings various parts of his body were still giving off. He closed his eyes and rubbed the scalp, lightly squeezing locks of hair, not even wondering whose head it was.

Until, of course, he wasn’t wondering whose head it was, and then he totally started wondering whose head was on his bed. He cracked his eyes again, this time noticing the chair tilted toward the side of the bed and the ungainly way the person in it was slumped sideways leaning on the bed. The blue caught his attention and ran around knocking on doors in his memory for a moment before it found the right one. After licking his lips, he managed to croak out, “Rimmer?” His fingers found the shell of an ear and tweaked it lightly. “Rimmer, that you?” A slightly harder tweak, voice still a rasp. “Oy, Rimmer!”

“Stop stretching me!” The head came up, dropping Lister’s hand to the mattress, and Rimmer’s chair scraped back about a foot as the hologram shot to his feet, looking around swiftly. Lister noticed what looked like a small spittle of drool at the left corner of his mouth before Rimmer hastily wiped it away and – holy smeg, _smiled_ – at him. “Hey, you’re ali- wake!”

“Just barely aliawake, feels like,” Lister agreed, trying not to laugh. It hurt his stomach. Then he noticed the large bloom of reddish-brown marring most of Rimmer’s jacket. “The smeg ‘s that?”

Rimmer was visually inspecting Lister like a side of beef, frowning, until that. “What?” He looked down at himself. “Oh, eh, should’ve fixed that.” He fumbled for the keypad on his belt, poked around, and momentarily his bloodstained and dirt-streaked visage shimmered into the old red uniform, neat and tidy. When his form snapped back to blue immediately after, Rimmer was the immaculate spit-and-polish git Lister knew best, complete with hair spanked tightly into place instead of frizzy and scattered. “That was unbecoming of an officer,” he muttered under his breath, then stood straight and scowled down at Lister. “The next time you hare off after unidentified simulants without getting clearance, buckaroo, you’d better have Kryten stashed somewhere in your pocket, because I mightn’t be bloody stupid enough to come to your rescue again!”

There was something fidgety in Rimmer’s military bearing. Lister licked his lips to wet them for speaking. “You. Rescue?” The raspy chuckle slipped out, and he coughed. “When have you ever.”

Ah, the affronted nostril-flare! “I dragged your lousy arse out of that stupid closet you stuck your smegging stupid face into, Lister. You’d have been stabbed more if I hadn’t.” He smirked and pointed at Lister’s bound left shoulder. “I saved your life, miladdio.”

“Yeah?” Using his hands flat on the mattress, Lister pushed himself up against the pillows, pausing every few seconds to catch his breath. “You did that?” Rimmer nodded officiously. “Well, man … thanks. I’m glad you did.”

The man looked flummoxed, mouth moving a little but nothing coming out. He snapped it shut, still frowning at Lister. “See it doesn’t happen again,” he finally ordered, before moving around the bed and leaving the medibay.


	4. Chapter 4

Rimmer was in the middle of explaining for the third time about Lister’s callous cluelessness, about how he’d had the temerity to question Rimmer’s bravery and then just … thank him, without anything beyond that.

“What should Mr. David have done to better express gratitude proper to your expectation?” Troi-7 prodded for the seventh time.

“I don’t know,” Rimmer muttered, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “He could just be less of a git,” he added, impotently.

“From what I have observed, it is this being a git, as you have defined it to me, that endears him to you.”

Rimmer shook his head. “There’s not any endearing going on anywhere. I don’t love the little bastard, if that’s where you’re going again.”

The red light blinked more rapidly, slowed, sped up – and then stopped blinking altogether. Rimmer waited a moment and when nothing happened, he spoke to what was left of the mech’s ball-shaped head. “Are you there?” Nothing. “Hello? Hey! Are you still functioning, you stupid metal twonk?” Nothing. “Stop smegging ignoring me, damn you!”

Nothing.

Now Rimmer felt the rise of panic, a familiar emotion linked forever with his childhood and failed career advancement prospects. “Troi Seven?” he asked instead, modulating his voice. “Are you conscious? Operating? Awake? Whatever?” He came out of his seat, the panic approaching failed-drive-plate-repair mode, and picked up the surprisingly light piece of electronics. “You bloody batty brain-bot, what the hell are you doing?”

The spherical thing gave no indication it was any more active than a dodgeball. Rimmer shook it, shook until he heard faint rattling, and immediately thrust it back at the cushioned chair. He clapped a hand to his mouth and tried not to bite his fingers. “What’ve I _done_?” he fairly wailed. A sudden idea sent him racing from the spare quarters; there had to be a way to fix this!

Fifteen minutes later he was dragging Lister into the room, fingers clenched around the cuff of his smeggy jacket. The shorter man hadn’t gotten much more out of him than a garbled imperative to “smegging well smegging put that down and come HERE!” and a pull that yanked him stumbling much of the way behind the hologram. He released Lister’s cuff and pointed accusingly at the Series 6000. “It stopped working!” he barked. “And no, I didn’t do it.”

“What? I didn’t say- What’s even wrong with it?” Lister squinted at the metallic black ball. “Rimmer, calm down! You’re going to have to slow down and tell me what happened, okay?”

“It stopped working,” Rimmer repeated. “I was talking to it, and it bloody well stopped blinking and talking, and listening.” He reached over and knocked on the top of it with a tightly-clenched fist. “Are you still listening?” he demanded of it. Not giving it a chance to respond, he stepped back and turned to Lister, arms crossed. “See?”

The Scouser sighed and carefully picked up the sphere, turning it in his hands. “Well?” Rimmer demanded.

“If you don’t step off barking at me, I can’t concentrate,” Lister muttered, looking it over. After a moment, he shook his head. “I’m not a robotics expert, Rimmer. I don’t know what I’m looking for, and I don’t know what’s wrong with him. We should probably ask Kryten, or Kris about this.”

“You got Kryten back online. We don’t need Officer Perfect on this,” Rimmer countered. “Maybe Kryten, if you have to look at something.”

Lister eyed him sidelong, too closely. “What’ve you got against Kochanski?” he asked. “She’s the one who got Kryten functional in her universe. Took her less time than it did me.”

“Aren’t she and Kryten working on calculations to get her back home?” he asked, congratulating himself on remembering this piece of conversational datum. It was bad enough he’d had to seek Lister’s help, but he really didn’t want _her_ getting into Troi-7’s database; who knew how the bot recorded and stored their sessions? “Wouldn’t want to interrupt that.”

“I doubt this’d take her too long. ‘Sides, she’s not doing it constantly anymore.” Lister shrugged, looking the bot over again. “I’ll take it to Kryten’s workshop where there’s tools, see if I can open it up. But it looks too involved, I’m calling in Kris.”


	5. Chapter 5

Rimmer accompanied him, squeezing onto a box to sit even after Lister pointed out it wasn’t much bigger than a closet and he didn’t know how clean it even was in there. “Please,” Rimmer scoffed. “The one thing that iron gimboid knows how to do is spit-and-polish. You could probably lick jam off the damn crates in here and not get so much as a splinter.”

He watched Lister examine the metal ball, pick up a tool from time to time to pry at a panel or vent, lean closer to squint inside it. He’d shrugged off his jacket to throw over the box he straddled at the small worktable, and Rimmer found himself occasionally watching how the small muscles flexed under the skin of Lister’s forearm and bicep, as well as noticing the padding at his shoulder under the thin t-shirt where gauze still protected the stab wounds from several days ago. Lister breathed steadily, the noise punctuated by small noises of discovery or consternation when he found something and occasional muttering under his breath over whatever he was studying. His short, blunt fingers were surprisingly nimble, Rimmer thought, and he eventually realized he was looking between Lister’s hands and his face and feeling warm and happy just being in the room without arguing, and that Lister was still _alive_ and here and breathing normally. He wanted to forget how limp and dead the man had felt when he dragged him away from the poison dart closet, how surprised he’d been to find extra strength to lift Lister against him and run for the pod. He wanted to forget how he’d panicked at Lister’s shallow breathing and yelled at the pod to dock up with _Starbug_ faster, and how he’d eventually pressed his face to the top of Lister’s head and sobbed like a big, dumb infant for the man not to die before they could get back to Kryten and the medibay. What he _really_ wanted to forget was how Kochanski kept glancing almost white-faced at him with uncharacteristic concern as she and Kryten found the appropriate drugs for Lister, and how she’d pulled him away from the bed while the mech worked on him.

_“Come on, Rimmer.” She squeezed his hands. “Calm down, calm down – look, Dave’ll be fine, all right? Kryt’s working on him now … see? His breathing’s getting better. You got a staunch on his shoulder in time, he didn’t lose too much blood.”_

_Rimmer said nothing. He didn’t want to have to listen to this woman, thank her in any way, and he absolutely didn’t want her to let his hands go and leave the room during this. To his horror and relief, she put an arm around his shoulders and sat with him. “He’ll be okay; you two’ll be back to bitching at each other by tomorrow, most likely.”_

At least he hadn’t been crying still at that point. He’d been surprised when it was all over that she’d been the one to volunteer to take over watch from Cat, since it was Lister’s turn and someone had to, and hadn’t tried to pull rank to stay at his bedside. It wasn’t until later when he had too much time to think that it occurred to him she’d misinterpreted his reaction to Lister’s injuries. Had she thought Rimmer wouldn’t react with similar panic to any of them being attacked? He was a certified coward and obsessive-compulsive; of course overreaction was his default mode.

“Hey.” Rimmer sat up a little. He’d drifted off mentally enough that he didn’t realize Lister was watching him, head tilted. Rimmer really had no idea what he’d been staring at, but Lister’s expression was a soft sort of amusement. “I think I might’ve gotten him up and running again.”

“Oh, good.” Rimmer rubbed his hands together and blinked, nodding. “Is it back on?”

“Green light was on; I think he was rebooting maybe.” Lister uprighted the ball and turned it so they could both watch the unwavering green light. “This has become pretty important to you, hasn’t it?” Lister asked. “Being able to talk to him, get that kind of advice on whatever’s going on with you?”

Rimmer shrugged, feeling a lot less panicked. “He doesn’t know anything other than what he gets from me,” he tried to explain, dimly aware he was using Lister’s pronoun now, too. “He doesn’t know any of the people who used to know me, and just the few of you, so his prejudices are limited. Sometimes he doesn’t know entirely what the hell he’s saying, but … he listens, and he doesn’t judge as much as some people I’ve known.”

“Yeah,” Lister agreed. “I’ve only sat down and talked to him a couple of times. I’ve been thinking maybe I should do it more.”

“You?” Rimmer was surprised. “What do you need it for?”

“It’s not like I’m all right in the head, either.” Lister tucked Kryten’s tools back into a small box. “I’ve been out here by myself – well, with you guys, but yeah, pretty much alone – for almost ten years, and I’m getting older, and … I don’t know, Rimmer. Just a lot of things.”

There was thickening melancholy in his voice, and Rimmer could only think to say, “I’m sorry, Listy.”

“I know, man.”

They were silent a little longer as they waited; Rimmer realized how dim the light was in here, how close the quarters. It was very small and warm and oddly comforting, and he rather wished they didn’t have to get up and leave. “How’s your shoulder?” he asked. “It’s not still – does it bleed?”

“Nah, it’s good. Just healing up.” He grinned; Rimmer cautiously smiled in response, just a little, since his face wasn’t used to it. “Don’t know if I ever thanked you properly for that. I would’ve died if you hadn’t acted so fast.”

He was saved from having to answer by the appearance of a blinking red light that got both their attention. “Troi, buddy, you with us?” Lister asked, hand still on top of the sphere.

A series of odd noises, then the smooth voice: “I am operational again.”

“Yeeesss!” Lister did a little chair-based touch-up shuffle, and Rimmer couldn’t help laughing. “So what’d Rimmer do to shut you down, anyway? Tell you another boring RISK story?”

“Now wait!” Rimmer protested. “RISK isn’t boring.”

“Maybe not, but the way you talk about who rolled this and who moved what, it’s like listening to hair grow,” Lister groaned. “Put a little panache into it if you’re going to tell those things over and over, at least!”

“That is a good suggestion, Mr. Arnold,” the 6000 added. “Humans tend to respond better to action words and details than just dry recountings-”

“I know what humans _do_ ,” Rimmer snapped. “What do you think I am, a smegging schnauzer?”

Lister was grinning at him again. It was, Rimmer was disturbed to realize, something he could get very, very used to on a regular basis. Damn. “You’d be more of an English boxer, I’d think,” Lister weighed in. “Or maybe a German Shepherd.”

 _Quit being so fucking adorable_ , Rimmer thought, blaming Lister for his feelings. _Grown men should not have cheeks like Care Bears._ “Don’t call me a Kraut,” he muttered. “I’m not that anal retentive or boring.”

The 6000 piped up pleasantly. “My inventor was German, and she was quite intelligent and possessed of what I believe was an agreeable sense of humor.”

“He’s got you there,” Lister said, not at all helpfully.

“Smeg off, dog-food breath.”


	6. Chapter 6

“I believe you would benefit from a joint talking session.”

That’s how this had started. The bloody machine had suggested Rimmer consent to time in a little room with Lister again, explaining it had been able to partially sense their presence while seemingly nonfunctional, and expressing encouragement that they seemed to communicate well when not pressured to behave A Certain Way in front of others. “But _you’re_ ‘others,’” Rimmer pointed out.

“I would only be a guide for conversation. Perhaps an interpreter as needed. Naturally, you do not have to take my advice, nor do you need to have a conversation in front of me,” Troi-7 pointed out, blinking red. “I cannot force you. But I do not share your history in the same way Kryten and the Cat do, so I have no expectations of either of you other than what I have already learned from contact telepathically and through conversations.”

“That’s what worries me,” Rimmer muttered, chewing at this thumbnail.

Still, here he was … in _Starbug’s_ cockpit. He’d promised that batty ball of lead he’d do this, but on his terms. Not in front of a third party. Not in therapy, for Io’s sake. He swallowed, mouth half-open, nearly speaking, hesitating, when Lister craned his head to look back over his shoulder and noticed him. “Anything wrong?” he asked mildly, raising his eyes to Rimmer’s.

 _Other than me wanting to kiss you so hard my bee bores into you?_ Rimmer thought. _Why no, Listy. Everything’s tip-tappy-good._ He couldn’t even convince himself this was acceptable; how could he be so afraid of the mere _idea_ of what gay men did to each other and still admit he was in love with one?

_“Mr. Arnold, psychiatry accepted long before you were ever born that homosexual tendencies were just as immutable as heterosexual desires. Geneticists upheld that finding scientifically, decades later. I am puzzled why this would be of such concern to you.” Troi-7 paused, blinking a few times before asking, “Do you hold the homosexual people you have known in disregard or contempt?”_

_“No, I haven’t. I’ve never …” Except, he had. Rimmer dropped his eyes to his thumbs twisting each other around in his lap. “I … have done that, yes.” The words were thick, dry in his throat. He thought of how his brothers had scoffed at the gays who’d joined the holograms, and other maligned groups, in that pride parade when he was six. How little Arnold had jeered with them, thrown things without understanding why, but feeling if his brothers approved it, their word must be law._

He’d spent the last two days chewing over the shame from that memory, and all the slurs he’d spouted off as he’d gotten older for the same. But he still hesitated to talk with his bunkmate, and didn’t know if it was because he still had a lingering distrust of homosexuality, or because it was Dave his simulated heart had chosen to fix helplessly upon. _You’re still a grotty bum_ , he thought at their nighttime pilot. _Your life goals were nothing like mine, and you have no respect for authority or safety, and I’m not sure you have any respect for me except that you treat me a hell of a lot more decently than I probably deserve, and you’re understanding and_

“… trustworthy, and acted more like a brother to me than any family I was ever related to,” and Rimmer wondered how long he’d been speaking out loud, sort of horrified he was unable to stop, but also a little relieved. “And I think maybe I’m confused by all of that and maybe I just _think_ I’m in love with you, and I’m sure I’m really not. Troi Seven seems to think I am and keeps saying it, but I’ve told it that it doesn’t know anything about us, and what’s the point anyway of loving someone you can’t ever have, because I’ve watched you do it for years. I don’t ever want to be that pathetic.” Rimmer shook his head, mind made up _finally_ , and turned to step out. He felt both liberated and exhausted.

“Hold – wait.” He heard rustling and scraping, and a hand on his arm halfway through the door held him in place. Rimmer turned back reflexively with _I don’t love you, stupid_ in his mouth. Lister was looking up at him, quite curious, brow furrowed. “C’mon, Rimmer, I mean – This is the second time it’s come up … so, do you love me?”

“No, Listy,” he replied mostly with confidence, relieved to have that settled. “I never did; I just thought I wanted you.”

Well …

That’s what he intended to say. Instead, he looked upon dark, deep intelligent eyes and cheekbones and a slightly flat nose, and a small mouth – and angled his head forward to kiss that mouth. It was impulsive and unexpected, and he wanted to say he was sorry and sputter uselessly all at once, but Dave kissed him back. Rimmer tried to speak, but hands touched his face and his neck, and there was a short, fuzzy period where he felt nothing, and then realized he’d curled his arms around Dave and was holding him tightly. “I don’t,” he started, swallowing at the feel of Lister’s lower lip tugging under his upper lip. “Know if I love you.”

“Are you sure?” Lister’s voice, quiet and slightly out of breath and gravelly.

“Yes.” He kissed Dave again. “No … hell, smeg, _shit_.” He lowered his head and Lister laughed into his hair. “Stop touching me,” Rimmer said insincerely, still clutching the shorter man.

“Okay. Right on that.” He felt Dave kiss the top of his head, and thought his chest would explode, propelling his bee out the front glass-shield of the ship and sucking out all the oxygen. “Wanna sit down?”

“Probably a good idea,” Rimmer agreed. Lister managed to lead him toward the two chairs and gently eased Rimmer into one before pausing to tilt his face up and kiss him again, deeper this time, leaving Rimmer disoriented and lightheaded as Lister leaned back into the pilot’s seat again. When he opened his eyes – a little at a time, peeking at first like a damn little boy, until he was sure he wasn’t in trouble – he found Lister checking his console readings briefly, chair swiveled sideways toward Rimmer, before turning his attention back to Rimmer too. He was grinning, and it was the good one – not the idiotic one, though this was probably certainly the same one Rimmer used to call idiotic, but the one that made his whole expression light up like he’d just come across a derelict stocked with ten Olympic-sized pools of vindaloo lamb. Rimmer blinked, relaxing a little more. “You’re good with this?”

“Well, Christ, Arn, I’ve only figured it out for the last few months now,” he shot back with an odd edge to his sarcasm. It sounded warm. “Nobody acts the way you do when they’re _not_ in love. You just like to give commentary to yours where you lie a lot about it.”

“But – but I was straight!” Lister rolled his eyes at that and laughed briefly, hard. “Now wait a minute; I _was_ , Lister!”

“No – you weren’t, Arn. I’m sorry, man.” Lister shook his head. “You wanted to be. Maybe part of you is. Same way part of me is.”

“Part of you?” Rimmer blinked. That was twice Lister had said something dangerously close to not minding that Rimmer wanted to suck his face off just two minutes ago.

“Part. Maybe most, who can be sure.” Lister leaned forward, reaching for Rimmer’s hands, making him look down at them. After a moment of watching darker thumbs rub the webbing between his and his index fingers, he heard him say, softly, “Hey, look up … look at me, Arn.” He did. “Are _you_ good with this?”

“I think so.” It was an honest answer. “I wish you didn’t seem to know more about it than I do.”

“To be fair, it’s hard to not figure it out for sure when you’ve got a man crying into your hair and begging you not to die in certain tones of voice.” He stared unblinking into Rimmer’s eyes, which unsettled the hologram by making him _want_. “I thought maybe it was just blood loss at first, or me imagining it. But I woke up, and you were there, and coated in blood, and …” Lister trailed off as Rimmer leaned forward, and their foreheads met. “I’m surprised you admitted it, though,” he added, low and soft, his voice caressing all of Rimmer’s simulated nerves. “You ought to be proud of that honesty.”

He said nothing for a moment, savoring the touches, the words of surprising encouragement. “Proud?”

“Yeah,” Lister said. “It’s not your usual tactic. You tend to over-deny when someone’s right, don’t you?”

And then Rimmer was babbling something about how he’d played a role most of his life, of obedient son – even after the emancipation, how curious, he now thought as he said it aloud – then obedient recruit and employee. He wasn’t sure how far he’d gotten into an explanation, but it didn’t feel like much at all when Lister pulled away. Before he could angst about chasing him off, Lister brought his palms together, rubbing them lightly, his own hands still on the backs of Rimmer’s, his fingertips brushing Rimmer’s wrists.

“Somebody’s got to stay on console,” Lister pointed out gently, releasing Rimmer’s hands, “so why don’t you fix us a cup in the midsection?” He smiled. “I’ll even hold your seat.” Somewhat dazed, Rimmer nodded and stood, surprised when Lister did, too. Dave kissed his chin quickly, and briefly cupped his elbow before Rimmer tore himself away to brew their beverages.


	7. Chapter 7

“So, tell me – what’s this you were saying about feeling like you’ve been wearing a mask so long?” Lister slumped down a little in his chair, leaning back, legs partly splayed as he turned his body toward Rimmer again, taking a sip of tea. It was an indolent pose, but Lister’s eyes countered it, fixed on Rimmer’s face steadily and calmly.

It was … weird, for Rimmer. They talked, really _talked_ , in a way they hadn’t done since that couple of years after he’d first been resurrected as a hologram. Once in a while during that time, while he was still apparently coming to terms with being the last human alive, Lister would have rather too much to drink or look at old photos too long, and begin rambling. Rimmer had listened, not adding much to his ruminations, just giving himself over to listening. He’d whined plenty about his childhood and his lot in life over the years, but he felt Lister had given up actually engaging in conversation about it long ago – probably for good reason, since Rimmer never indicated that anything the man said made him feel better.

Now, it began coming out – his family, his early attempts at officer school, his repeated failure to grab promotions through actual work and diligence, how all of this had cycled through his head probably thousands of times over his centuries on that damnable Planet of the Clones. He talked, Lister asked questions every so often, and before he realized, two hours had passed. It was the same smeg he’d confided in Troi-7 (well, almost all of it), but Lister listened. He _engaged_ , and it gave Rimmer warm fuzzies the likes of which he’d always disdained when other people described the sensation.

Alas, as he later discovered when back in quarters, it also rendered him vastly confused about what was supposed to happen next. He stood in the middle of the room, looking from his bunk to Lister’s, wondering what he was expected to do. This is how he ended up faking sleep in his own bunk when Lister arrived off-shift in the middle of the night, his back to the door, scooted up to the outer edge of his bed. His roommate left the room dark, and Rimmer listened to the rustle of boots and clothes as Lister presumably changed and then trundled somewhat quietly into his own bunk with a soft sigh and settling movements. Rimmer concentrated on breathing normally, alternately berating himself silently for being such a coward and letting the edges of his mind go soft as he replayed how when he’d left the cockpit earlier, Dave had hauled him close, kissed him long, and breathed against his lips for Rimmer to “wait up for me, hmm?”

He waited a whole thirty seconds once Dave was down for the night, to clear his throat and venture, “Youcancomeoverhereifyouwantto.”

Lister muttered, “Think that’d do any good, really?”

Rimmer shrugged to himself. “It might help disperse the stench of abject cowardice in the air,” he said, a bit louder.

“I’m not for forcing anyone into bed with me, nor invading theirs,” Lister murmured.

Rimmer could hear him very close by, their heads both close to the little in-table between the bunks. He wanted to turn onto his stomach and look across the top of it to his roommate. Instead, he stayed put. “I don’t feel like it’d be forcing,” he finally said, quietly. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to want – Dave.”

“Tell me what you actually want, then.”

Memories of Lister’s arms around him earlier in the night flooded his mind, and he closed his eyes, bowing his head into the pillow. “I liked it when you were touching me,” he admitted. It was dark enough. “Just … your arms around me, you know.”

“Ahh.” Nothing immediately, but then Rimmer heard him shifting around and presumably sitting up, as feet sounded like they were landing on the floor. “Arn, do you want me to come over there?”

Nobody had ever said that to Rimmer with good intentions, and for a moment he flashed back to Io House, where the worst thing a younger boy could do was make one of the older students ask a very similar question. He swallowed down the “NO!” that wanted to squeak out; instead, he rolled to his back, then his other side, all while scooting minutely back against the wall. “Sure. Okay,” he assented.

“Hmm. Nothing like a guy knowing he’s wanted,” Lister quipped dryly, and in the dark, Rimmer could see him stand, rub his face with both hands, stretch a little, and come to the edge of his bunk. “You _sure_ , man?”

Rimmer lifted his blanket. “Just get in before I change my mind,” he answered with a snappishness he hadn’t intended to convey.

It was awkward, accommodating another body; Rimmer had long suspected the bunk sizes had been the JMC’s most effective birth control method, even with all the free pills and condoms and patches the company had passed out. Sleeping was straightforward enough for these “beds” as some laughingly called them, never mind fucking. Sleeping together was something only the very desperate, officers, or married couples could afford to get away with, in _Red Dwarf’s_ highly coveted couples’ quarters. _Starbug_ was not equipped with such considerations; hell, they were lucky to have a stovetop. There was nothing romantic about the way Rimmer had to scoot back even further to give Lister room on his side, or figure out where to put the Scouser’s arms so the one underneath wouldn’t go to sleep from the pressure of Rimmer’s body. They ended up rather awkwardly pressed together, Rimmer holding himself stiffly (not in the good way) as he felt like they were barely balanced on the bunk.

He tried to be sanguine about it for a while, but that lasted all of thirty seconds after they stopped moving. “How the bloody smeg did you and Kochanski manage to get anything done all those times you kicked me out?” he finally demanded to know. “Did you toss her on the table? You did, didn’t you? I was eating my morning muffin on her arseprints, wasn’t I?”

“What makes you think she was always on bottom?” was Lister’s rapid-fire response.

“Oh, god,” Rimmer muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. Funnily enough, when one shut their eyes to try to get rid of a mental image, cutting off all external distractions usually just made it stronger.

“I’m _teasing_ ,” Lister laughed quietly. “Relax, why don’t you.”

“Well, you see, it’s very hard to-” He was cut off by a kiss, and at first, he received it with his customary rigidity. Then he remembered where he was, who this was, and slowly tried to give himself permission to melt into it. It wasn’t easy, but after several seconds he was distracted by Lister’s tongue stroking his. He didn’t know when he realized he’d relaxed to the point of letting his body sort of sway into the other man’s, but he was sharply aware of a knee between his at some point, Lister’s thigh brushing his growing erection. He made a strangled sound into Lister’s mouth; Lister laughed noiselessly back and whispered, “It certainly seems to be.”

“I’m-” He realized he was about to apologize for his hard-on, and quieted as Lister moved his leg, rubbing it. “Oh,” he murmured after a moment, eyes closed, his entire body beginning to wake up to the pleasure. Lister’s hand cupped his backside as he kissed Rimmer, peppering his lips with soft caresses. “Listy, I-”

“You like that?” He nodded, his nose sliding over Lister’s. “I’ve wanted to touch you for a long time like this … got such long legs you could wrap around me.” Rimmer whimpered, moved to get his hand between them and search out Lister’s cock. He found it in short order, rubbing through his shorts. It was substantial, and monstrously hard, and he managed to slip his hand through the placket and feel the skin on his palm. “God- Rimmer-” he whispered shortly, sucking in air before kissing him harder.

“Don’t call me that,” Rimmer muttered. “Use the other one.”

“Arn, yeah … that’s it …” He felt Lister’s hand bunch at the side of his satiny pajama pants and yank down, tugging until he felt skin not his own brushing his penis. A hand replaced the leg, and Rimmer exhaled a throaty moan, which Lister swallowed eagerly. “You sound amazing,” Lister muttered into his lips, shifting so their erections could meet and touch and rub and roll against each other.

“Listy, don’t stop- I mean, Dave, I- God, oh god, oh Listy, please,” he begged, panting hard. His entire body convulsed with his orgasm, and he didn’t notice how hard they were gripping each other, shoving back and forth in the bunk. Before Lister could comment on his jackrabbit-like response, Rimmer pushed at him until Lister was on his back, Rimmer above him, kissing him hard and rubbing still against his now-wet, still-hard cock. He hoped to convey what he was capable of before Lister could express disappointment; Lister’s hands squeezing his ass didn’t hurt, and soon, he was regaining an erection. “See?” he breathlessly pointed out.

“Yeah?” Lister sounded equally out of breath, and even in the dark Rimmer could see how his dark eyes glittered with what he guessed was _want_. It made him dizzy to think Lister could be equally turned on by him. “That’s a … neat trick, darlin’.”

Instead of being offended or put out by the endearment, Rimmer laughed, muffled when Lister reached up and yanked his pajama shirt over his head. They tossed it aside and paused to work at Lister’s t-shirt – and then Lister pulled him down, chest-to-chest, and laved kisses on his mouth as they rocked awkwardly, finding a new rhythm. Rimmer braced his forearms against the pillow as they kiss-licked, while Lister gently shoved his fingers into Rimmer’s hair and moved it around, whispering something every so often about how gorgeous he was; even in the middle of sex, Rimmer could feel himself blush. “Isn’t it dark to see?” he asked.

“I know what you look like,” Lister replied, “but you’ve got a point.” He paused enough to pull Rimmer over so they both rolled to their sides again, and called, “Lights, thirty percent!”

Dim lighting seemed bright, and Rimmer squinted at first, as did Lister, pressing his forehead to the other man’s. “I’d like to see you,” he explained, breathing shallow, pushing messy curls back behind Rimmer’s ear as he pulled back to look in his eyes.

“You do?” Rimmer still blinked, but was getting used to the low light – and continued to blink as Lister stared at him. He nearly asked what the other man could find to enrapture him – except he got caught up studying the sheer deep, black heat of Lister’s gaze. There was a touch of what he thought was wonder in them, and a healthy dose of what he knew for Lister was lust. It was oppressive as sin, and prickled Rimmer’s skin pleasantly. “Your eyes,” he finally said, thinking he needed to make some noise, and he brought his hand between them to touch Lister’s cheek. “ _Really_ dark.”

Lister leaned in and brushed their noses, and Rimmer was undone. He angled his head to kiss Lister, hand sliding to the back of his head. They were back in their awkward positioning from before, but it didn’t take long for Lister to get them sorted, rubbing together, hips undulating in a way that made Rimmer move similarly in counterpoint. His skin flushed, ached for this man. He knew he’d feel silly later, but perhaps he wouldn’t care if Lister grinned at him for it. “You’re good at this,” he remarked, teeth clenched.

“You got some … talent yourself,” Lister panted, licking his chin. “Feeling … better?”

“Yeah.” Rimmer actually laughed then, as much as he was able, and Lister blessed him early with the grin, kissing his temple.

They came in each other’s arms a moment or two later – who knew? – Rimmer first, but still alert enough to realize when Lister did shortly after. He closed his eyes, feeling Dave’s chugging breaths as well as hearing them, frankly amazed at how little time it had taken to go from tentative to desperately horny. Then again, Lister had that effect – as well as the effect of making Rimmer feel awkward. Despite their activity, tendrils of discomfort began weaving around his limbs and through his chest and stomach as Lister jostled him closer, sighing in what he guessed was contentment.

Like he was reading the man’s mind, Lister murmured, “You all right, Arn?”

“Mmm hmm.” Rimmer closed his eyes.

“Uh huh.” Lister sighed again, eyes closed. “It’s normal, you know.”

“What’s that?” His voice was back to its clipped, rushed near-squeak.

“Feeling nervous. Pretty standard after the first time or two.” Lister insisted on keeping an arm around him. “You get used to someone, it goes away.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Rimmer muttered under his breath, but Lister snorted. He began rubbing Rimmer’s back in small circles, and after a fashion, Rimmer felt his nervousness cracking, a little at a time. “ _You_ don’t seem nervous,” he accused.

“No offense, man, but I’m more used to sex than you are.” He paused. “It might be easier if you’d look at me. Kind of speeds along that awkward post-coital adjustment period.”

“I like it here,” Rimmer insisted. Still, he blinked, gathering his courage, finally snapping his eyes open and not flinching from the way Lister was looking at him. “There,” he snapped, quietly.

“How you feeling?” Lister’s gaze never wavered from his eyes, and Rimmer wondered if he’d blink anytime soon.

He thought it over. “Anxious,” he finally sighed in admission.

“Your eyes are all sleepy.” Lister reached up and touched Rimmer’s forehead, and he realized the Scouser was brushing errant hair away from his face. “Sleepy, and heavy … soft.” Rimmer made a small noise in the back of his throat, unable to speak at the rough tone in Lister’s voice. “You look a lot less angry, Arn.” He smiled and cocked his head. “You need to do more shagging, more often.”

“Just anywhere?” His own voice was quiet and he flicked his eyes to Lister’s mouth, which seemed closer than it had been. The man’s face mesmerized him.

“Well, with me,” Lister added, kissing him. The deep, swooping, heated feeling in Rimmer’s gut surprised him as he kissed the man back, moving a hand to his hip. He was lightheaded and … it took a moment to identify the “and” as giddy. Could he be giddy? Was he capable of it? He didn’t have time to wonder, as he kissed Lister back, letting the man play with his hair.

At some point soon after that, Rimmer drowsed off to sleep, which he only realized when he woke up a few hours later.


	8. Chapter 8

Troi-7 blinked steadily as it processed and whorled and judged. Finally: “Did you believe your mental and emotional problems would disappear because you began a relationship with someone you have been saying you did not love?”

“No, I don’t guess … so,” Mr. Arnold stumbled out. “I thought it would help, though; that I’d broken one of my family’s taboos, so maybe the others would sort of fall off, too.”

The telepathic machine smoothly replied, “If I may, that was hardly the first taboo of your parents that you broke. You have never conducted your life quite as they intended or planned for you, have you?” The human-hologram furrowed his brows at Troi-7, radiating tendrils of confusion. “Conversely, you still cannot quite break this one.”

“What does that mean?” The patient was chewing at his thumbnail, nostrils flared at the 6000.

“Regarding Mr. David, of course.” Mr. Arnold blinked, and his tense, confused thoughts briefly parted to make way for a warm, pleasant, glad memory of some sort. It was the same feeble glow Troi-7 had detected when the _Starbug_ crew first reactivated it, only not quite so feeble now. “I want you to say out loud how you regard him.”

“What?” It was short, irritated, snappish, and high. “Why do I have to tell you? I’ve told him already.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I-” Mr. Arnold bit off the words. Troi-7 kept silent but if it had been installed with the simulated eyebrows feature, one would be cocked loftily right about now. He took a deep breath. “Well, obviously, you know, you can read my bloody mind, I toldhimIlovehim.” More thumbnail-chewing, legs crossed tightly, shoulders trying not to hunch.

“That is not what you said to him. What did you say?”

“I did! I said to the walking curry stain, I said, ‘I lov-” Mr. Arnold paused again, frowning to himself thoughtfully. “Oh. Maybe I didn’t say that in those exact words. But I said close to it.”

“Engaging in homosexual sexual activity is clearly not the problem any longer,” Troi-7 pointed out. The man fidgeted, but didn’t object. “The issue appears to be your ability to emotionally connect with someone in an equal capacity without the buffer of sarcastic defense and verbal jibes.”

“To be fair, that last part’s gotten kind of fun,” Mr. Arnold muttered, not low enough.

The machine beeped as it examined the hologram’s inner algorithms further. “You are really not so different from what you were as a child.”

“That supposed to be a compliment?” His tone said it wasn’t.

“You were a sensitive child, more interested in drawing and singing and playacting than in the militaristic endeavors of your father. You have said as much, in a previous session. I can play it back if you-”

“We’ll stipulate it, okay?” Mr. Arnold sounded peeved. “Get on with it.”

“You tried very hard to make friends with other children, but the companions you chose were not the ones your parents deemed suitable for, as I believe you put it, ‘A budding Alexander.’ So you had few or no friends. Eventually, you shut down in any emotional-positive manner. I believe this is what allowed you to seek your juvenile emancipation.” It paused, modulating its voice softener. “For what it is worth, Mr. Arnold, I do not believe that decision was a mistake. You are perhaps better off than you think yourself to be, or than you would otherwise be, as a result of that legal action.”

“A reanimated dead first technician who barely lost his virginity before the Big One,” he muttered again, louder this time. “At the age of thirty-one.” Troi-7 was silent. “Well, go on; you like when I admit how pathetic I am, don’t you? When I say out loud what’s in my head. Your raisin d’être, miladdo?”

Had Troi-7 been installed with the deep-breathing option, it would have sighed mightily at this juncture. (There seemed to be a lot that had been left uninstalled. Apparently the JMC had been one cheap corporate bastard.) “I was going to explain that in my estimation, you possess a very deep well of willingness to show affection, friendship, and love to those who are able to coax you to tap into it. You were injured emotionally at quite a young and formative age, and are still in recovery from that.”

Mr. Arnold’s mouth was set a very tight, thin line, his eyes pointed at the seat of the chair the mechanoid occupied. Troi-7 expected him to deny and bluster and generally verbally slice and dice as usual. “Lister is … patient,” he finally said, softly. “He listens to me, even when he doesn’t want to. He listens to all of us, probably mostly when he doesn’t want to. He’s messy and all over the place, and all that – but he’s good. He goes by his heart. I … like that he’s like that, even when he skitters over my last nerve.”

“I believe you should tell him that.” Mr. Arnold cocked _his_ eyebrow at that. _Show-off_ , Troi-7 thought (it _had_ been installed with internal monologue, which was no great feat since it was one of DivaDroid’s few free amenities, along with the religion chip). “It is perfectly normal and acceptable within the confines of an intimate relationship to express fond feelings for positive traits the other partner possesses.” It paused. “But not in front of your other crewmates, perhaps.”

*****

It was the day from ass. Lister had surely put up with worse, but he couldn’t remember everything being such a pain all at once. First there’d been the cockpit console dimming and slowly winking out. “Oi!” he’d demanded as he collared Kryten on dusting walkabout. “You didn’t decide to give the computer a spring cleaning like on the Nova 5, did you?”

“Of course not, sir!” Kryten and wrung his blocky hands. “It’s not reciting French poetry – is it?” He peeked around Lister’s shoulder into the cockpit. “Are there bubbles?”

He hadn’t answered, off to look for the Cat. Lister had rapped loudly on the locker beneath the felinoid, until he opened one lazy eye and glared down at his assaulter. “What do you want, monkey?”

“What’d you do to the console last night?” Lister wanted to know. The Cat closed his eyes and settled in again to purr. “HEY!” Lister beat on the locker twice, sharply. “What. Did. You. Do?”

Now both narrow eyes were open, and fangs were showing in an unamused smile. “Nothing,” he announced quite clearly. “I sat there, and I monitored, and I turned the wheel when I had to. Just like every watch.”

“Then why did it go out?”

“Maybe Magnet Head shook a wire loose when he was yanking it back and forth with you stretched out over it two nights ago.” The Cat’s teeth gleamed.

Behind him, Kryten had followed, still fretting. “Perhaps I was sleep-cleaning again! Oh, sir!”

Lister ignored him and pointed imperiously at the Cat. “That never happened.”

“Buddy, your handprints were smeared all over the top shiny part the next morning, and the air in there _reeked_ of it.” Cat pulled a face. “I know action when I smell it. This nose is in the _know_.”

“I grabbed it once when I leaned over it to straighten one of the knobs!”

“Perhaps you’d better check the security camera in the control room,” Kryten unhappily conceded. “It may show if I somehow wandered in there when I was supposed to be recharging, and put soapy water in the console, instead.”

“I think the knobs you were looking for were probably behind you,” Cat dryly observed, still watching Lister contemptuously and twitching one ear.

“Oh, here we go.” Lister rolled his eyes and crossed his arms aggressively. “You’ve got a problem with me and Rimmer, just-”

“You could keep your monkey sex in your own cage like any decent Cat and I do not car-”

“Spare Head Three!” Kryten exclaimed, cutting him off. “He’s had it in for me since we came aboard, sirs! I’d stake my remaining battery life on him being responsible for doing-”

Lister had had it. Some distant part of him was grateful this was Kochanski’s sleep period, at least. _“WOULD YOU BOTH JUST SHUT THE SMEGGING HELL UP?”_ he roared, waving his arms between them. “You!” He pointed at Kryten. “Maybe it’s just a bulb, now that I think about it! Could you just check that, _please_?” He whipped his head up toward the Cat. “You! As long as I don’t make you watch what I’m doing when I’m with- Wait, what camera?” He turned back to Kryten. “There’s a camera in the cockpit?”

“Of course, Mr. Lister. All JMC vessels are equipped with anti-theft and crew training performance recording devices. I thought you knew-”

“What the smegging smeg’s a security camera doing in there?” His voice, which had modulated, was going back up again, and he felt his face flaring hot. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there are only _five_ of us, and I don’t think anybody’s going to be stealing the smegging transport!” He noticed Kryten looked close to committing android _seppuku_ , his mouth widening and his face elongating as much as able in his version of emotional distress. “Oh, wait now, Kryt, no – look, calm the smeg down, yeah? I didn’t say it was your fault, I was just asking a question!” Lister scrubbed at his face and took a couple of deep breaths. “ Badly, okay? I shouldn’t yell at you. ‘S not your fault.”

“Don’t sweat it, buddy.” The Cat’s equanimity was never hard for him to recover, and he yawned, showing all his sharpest teeth. “Nobody on this tin can wants to watch the tape of you and Tight Pants doing _anything_.”


	9. Chapter 9

And so this is how Rimmer found Lister a little over an hour later in the cockpit, balancing on a stool in a back corner of the little room, a screwdriver in his mouth and a can of lager balanced on a nearby high-up shelf. He sensed the hologram watching him a moment before he heard, “All right, I’ll bite – what are you doing, Lister?”

“‘M disablin’ duh skurty karra,” Lister muttered around the tool, fingers trying to finish unscrewing the last screw he’d loosened.

“You know that’s expressly against Space Corps regulations and can be prosecuted as a serious crime, under Section-”

Lister took the screwdriver from his mouth halfway through the spiel. He was not in the mood. “You _do_ know the amount of a toss I give is inversely proportional to the string of letters you’re about to rattle off?” he countered. “Anyway, it’ll be the wrong subsection,” he muttered, pulling the camera housing free and stepping forward, down onto the floor. “Probably have to do instead with the protocol of blowing aliens while they’re invading the arboretum or something.”

Instead of correcting him or arguing, Rimmer pressed his lips together tightly and stared at Lister, eyes narrowed. Surprisingly, it passed in short order, and the taller man uncrossed his arms and let them hang to his side. “Kryten told me you’ve had a barking mad shift.”

“Life is such,” Lister shrugged, still irritated with the day, other creatures – everything. What business did Rimmer have not protesting?

“What are you going to do with that?” He nodded toward the disabled camera in Lister’s arms.

“Space junk. Why?”

Rimmer peered over the mess, brow furrowed. “Could come in handy sometime. Maybe you better just put it in storage or something?”

Why was the man being so obstinately conciliatory? “What on Earth do you imagine we’re ever going to do with a three-million-year-old security camera?” 

“If it didn’t still work, you wouldn’t be making the effort to take it down, would you?” Rimmer folded his arms. “There’d be no need.”

“Maybe I just thought it was taking up room.”

“Your dirty socks take up room in the sleeping quarters. So do your dirty cups and your worn underpants. You don’t seem to care much about those.”

“Ohhh, now we get at it, eh?” Lister dumped the camera junk into the back chair Rimmer usually took. “This is going to be a treatise on my slovenly habits.”

“Well, wonders don’t cease.” Rimmer arched a brow. “You know a couple of complicated words.”

Lister’s grin was feral. “Oh, I know lots of things.” He eyed Rimmer slyly. “Maybe even some you don’t.”

Rimmer exhaled suddenly, nostrils wide. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think?” Lister threw back, cryptically.

“Here we go!” Rimmer threw his hands into the air. “You still have to put me down and take the piss out of anything good!”

Lister widened his eyes innocently “What? What’d I say?” In the back of his mind, he knew he was being a pugnacious shit, but it hardly mattered. This just felt _right_ ; clearly he and Rimmer had never been meant to have a peaceful, normal, typical life together.

“Quit implying I don’t know what I’m doing in bed!”

“I’m not _saying_ you don’t know what you’re doing in bed!” Lister snarled. “I’m saying you don’t know when to back off! I wanted to be left alone! I’ve had a really horrible day, dealing with those two, and I knew you wouldn’t help at all!”

“Well, excuse the hell out of _me_!” Rimmer shot back. “I’m such a lousy date because I come in trying to show some sympathy and asking questions about your day just because I don’t know how to say I love you, and you smegging well scream at me for it! You want alone time, you’ve got it, bucko! I don’t need to stick around and be told I really am terrible in bed, next!”

“Why are you so fixated on how you are- Hold up, what?” Rimmer was halfway across the midsection to the metal staircase when Lister stuck his head out the cockpit door. “You just say you love me?”

Not stopping or turning, Rimmer waved him off with one hand. “What did you say?” Lister demanded again, louder.

Rimmer paused a few steps up and turned halfway, crouching over the rail and glaring at him. “What do you think?” he spat, smacking the rail and straightening, resuming his quick ascent.

Lister made it to the bottom step as Rimmer neared the top, where Lister could see his back was ramrod stiff, fists clenched at his sides. “Tell me again!” he called up the dimly-lighted steps. “Say it right!”

“What do you mean?” He hadn’t turned around, but he’d stopped on the penultimate step, head facing sideways.

“I mean,” Lister said, one hand on the rail, taking two steps up, lowering his voice to a normal pitch, “say it normally. Tell me properly.” He took two more steps, breathing harder, but it wasn’t from climbing or arguing. “Don’t yell it at me in the middle of a fight.”

“You started the fight, I didn’t!”

They hadn’t had a tiff in two or three weeks, nor a row in longer than that. “Yeah,” Lister admitted, taking two more steps, halfway up now. “It’s habit, y’know? It’s just … what we do, what we’ve done, for so long.”

“I think I should leave you on shift and get some sleep,” Rimmer said in his old imperiousness.

“No.” Lister jogged up the last several steps. He waited; with a heavy sigh, Rimmer finally placed his feet to turn around. He planted himself on the top step, and Lister moved to sit next to him. It was a tight fit on the narrow stairs but he took Rimmer’s closest hand, threaded the slender fingers through his own, and covered the back with his other hand, letting it all rest on Rimmer’s thigh. “I shouldn’t have bitten your head off.”

“Listy …” Rimmer looked away, then directly at him. “Just don’t treat the other one that way.”

It took a couple of seconds to sink in, and then Lister started laughing. Rimmer kept his straight face, only tiny wrinkles around his eyes giving anything away, for at least another five seconds. “Yeah,” Lister nodded, squeezing his hand. He was getting used to their newly-complicated signals. “I do, you, too, Arn.”

*****

A few months later, Troi-7 went missing. Every nook and cranny of _Starbug_ was searched, to no avail. It wasn’t with Kryten’s spare heads, it hadn’t rolled under any shelves or tables, it wasn’t stacked with the Cat’s other shiny hoard, Kochanski hadn’t smuggled it out in her skintight suit when they met back up again with her Starbuggers for her to return, and it wasn’t in anyone’s quarters. It just _wasn’t_.

At last, Lister hypothesized it had accidentally gotten in with the compacted refuse and probably been jettisoned one Tuesday night; this nearly led to Rimmer and Kryten in a grudge match over Kryten allegedly not checking the garbage well enough, stopped only by Lister threatening to bolt his used underpants to the deck and make them impossible for either to pick up to throw out an airlock or to launder.

As it happened, at around the same time the Series 6000 disappeared, the Cat _did_ find something new and shiny and jingly. He looked around to make sure nobody else had spotted the key ring with all manner of smaller silvery key rings hooked to it, then sat in the middle of the corridor shaking and batting at for a full three minutes before pocketing it and striding back to his hidey-hole to keep his new treasure safe.

But he needn’t have worried; those key rings didn’t intend to be found for a long while. The elderly telepathic polymorph, which had taken its long-lived shape millions of years ago before hibernating in a self-imposed energy-saving stasis after its crew’s deaths, could only ingest one strong negative emotion at a time – and had finally remembered how to shift again out of necessity, having eventually run out of Mr. Arnold’s angst and bitterness. The polymorph needed steady nourishment, and the stream from his “patient” had been waning progressively, with only occasional spikes, for months.

But, Mr. Cat! The felinoid’s vanity had a smooth, lovely flavor the polymorph had been craving for a long while now. Best of all, it was seemingly limitless and easily available for the small price of shifting into something different in Mr. Cat’s pile of Small Shiny Things every couple of days. All it had to do was avoid the furious cleaning of that damnable service android.

 _Then again_ , the former Troi-7 considered while resting with only a faint jingle, _guilt is wonderful comfort food, too …_


End file.
